


A Bowl of Cherries

by dreamofhorses



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Fruit, Light Bondage, M/M, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses
Summary: Based on a request about the adorable cherry sweater Timmy wore to a Q&A at the Paris Theater in December, and it actually being worn at Armie's request. Thanks as always to my Slack team for their input and support, xoxo.





	A Bowl of Cherries

_December 9, 2017_

“Armie?” Timmy’s voice is surprised yet happy. “I didn’t—come on in man, I was just getting ready for this thing—” Timmy’s mind is all over the place. He’s got one of those Q&A’s tonight and while he loves the questions from the public, he always has to be careful about saying too much. Wouldn’t want to give something away. 

Something like what he sees in Armie’s eyes when Armie steps into his tiny studio apartment. Timmy’s in slim black jeans, no shirt, toweling his wet hair which just falls, tumbles, rests wherever the hell it wants. Armie notices it. How could he not? How could it not bring back memories of those curls tickling his chest in Crema in between takes, no robe thanks, we’re good, Timmy nuzzling under his chin, whispering “fuck me, Timmy” in Armie’s ear to keep him hot for the next take? Those curls that fell in Timmy’s eyes when he showed up unannounced at Armie’s mansion in Bel Air, cold rain, too late at night, and Armie took one look at Timmy’s eyes and _knew_ , knew what they’d both known and never said, and knew that Timmy had come there to say it. Armie took Timmy to the pool house, sat him on the guest bed, and watched those goddamn curls fall into his eyes while Timmy said the only three words he’d been waiting for. Then Armie fisted his hands into those same curls while saying those three words in return. 

Now Timmy’s across the room, by the closet, and it’s been a week since Armie’s seen him. Skype helps, but god, in a way it _doesn’t_ , being able to look but not touch, hear but not taste, feel but not speak. Crossing the tiny room in two strides Armie grabs Timmy roughly around the waist. His arms almost go around Timmy twice and he feels Timmy melt into him. “You look good enough to eat,” he growls into Timmy’s ear.

 His only response is a high-pitched sigh from Timmy, who tries to turn for a kiss, but Armie’s got him tight, just wants to feel the length of Timmy against him, how well their sizes match, how he knows exactly where Timmy is starting to feel how hard Armie is getting. Armie bites Timmy’s shoulder, not hard, just a promise for later, and his eyes fall forward into Timmy’s closet and light up.

 “Wear this,” Armie says mischievously. He unwraps one arm from Timmy’s waist and grabs a black sweater with cherries on it. “If I want to eat you up tonight, everyone else in the room might as well feel the same way.”

 Timmy reaches out with his long fingers and takes the sweater. His eyes are shining now too, their usual sunny forest green color now gone dark, the forest at night when things prowl that might scare you, but might also take you to places you’d never imagined you could go. “Are you sure?”

 “Hell yes, I’m sure,” Armie growls, his voice now full to the brim of promises for later.

 “All right then,” and the sweater’s on Timmy in a flash, he’s such a whirl of energy, his boots are on and he’s almost out the door when he turns to Armie to say, “you asked for it.”

 The only thing hotter than Timmy’s unbridled energy and openness is that same energy with a dark undercurrent beneath it that only Armie sees. When they’ve agreed to do something back at the hotel after an interview, or when they kiss in an elevator and pull apart just before it opens and dumps them into a hotel lobby. Or, right now, the way that Timmy is bobbing ahead of Armie as they walk toward the Paris Theater, a little early since Timmy insisted on leaving as soon as Armie picked out his sweater. They reach the Paris and Armie figures Timmy will just head on backstage to warm up, but no, he’s going past it, around a corner, to a little brasserie where he seems to know the hostess on a first-name basis. _Put this kid anywhere in the world and he’ll find someplace with Matisse on the walls and buttery French food_ , Armie thinks, but he’s not complaining. Timmy’s going past the tables, though, straight to the bar, which is weird to Armie because Timmy barely drinks. He follows gamely to see what the kid’s up to.

 “An old fashioned,” Timmy’s saying to the bartender, who fortunately doesn’t seem to recognize them. Armie quirks his head at Timmy.

 “Should I order too?” Armie asks. “Are you getting some liquid courage for this Q&A, or what?” 

“Nah man,” Timmy purrs as the drink arrives. “You’re drinking this,” and he pushes the drink down the bar to Armie. 

But before he does, he pulls out the cherry garnish and rolls it between his long fingers.

  _Don’t_ , Armie thinks. _If you can do it, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to have to take you into the bathroom of this very classy restaurant and throw you against the wall like I’m 20 again, but I swear to god I will if you—_

Timmy’s staring at him. The cherry’s still twirling between those fingers, sculpting a figure 8 in the air. Armie can’t look away, even when Timmy brings the cherry to his mouth and ever so delicately snaps off the stem between his teeth. Without breaking eye contact Timmy swirls his tongue in his mouth a few times. Armie starts thinking of the things that tongue has done to him, or undone in him, in the bathroom of the Milan airport, under the covers in Timmy’s freezing apartment, in the green room at MTV with an assistant knocking at the door. That pink tongue nips out from between Timmy’s lips, curled at the sides so only Armie sees, and resting on it is that cherry stem, tied in a perfect knot.

 And Armie knows perfect knots. Knows them when he sees them, knows the feel of them under his hand, and once, when they were drunk enough, has known the look of them against Timmy’s pale skin, on Armie’s bed, stormy classical music playing and the Santa Ana winds going outside and Timmy looking for all the world like a bound angel who’d been caught trying to visit the inferno. He’s instantly so hard he can’t walk. And Timmy, devilish innocent little Timmy, has slid a 20 to the bartender and is bouncing off his stool. “Come on, Armie! That Q&A can’t start without me!” Armie drains the old fashioned in one gulp, adjusts himself discreetly, and follows Timmy out the door. 

The Q&A itself is a blur. Timmy seems poised, enthusiastic, always so grateful for the fans, Eloquent, sincere… _how does he do it?_ Armie wonders. _When all I can think about now is Timmy, and knots, and fruit…_  

After the Q&A Armie sneaks out a separate door so he can meet Timmy at his apartment, Timmy loves signing autographs, meeting fans, thanking them…Armie loves these things too, usually, but not when all he can think of is Timmy in that sweater, and Timmy out of that sweater. Timmy working the room, warming up the crowd, telling stories so honestly about the filming and about getting into character…and knowing that all Armie could see was that knot tied in the stem of every cherry on that goddamn sweater.

 When Timmy arrives at the apartment building and meets Armie in the lobby his eyes have gone almost black with lust. He’s constantly licking his lips with that tongue of his and when he goes to let them into the apartment his hands are shaking. Once they’re inside Timmy stands in the center of the room, eyes cast down at first, and then slowly meets Armie’s gaze. It kills Armie that, after all this time, Timmy still wants approval. His eyes are asking if it’s OK, what he did, if it was OK to be that goddamn sexy and hot and ask for exactly what Armie wants to give. Armie hopes by laying his own eyes bare to Timmy that Timmy sees the answer he wants to give. _Ask, or don’t even ask. Just think it. We know each other that well by now. The answer is always yes._

 Armie crosses the room slowly to where Timmy stands by the bed. Timmy’s motionless. Armie gently shrugs Timmy’s jacket off and tosses it aside. That adorable cherry sweater is underneath. Timmy’s still watching Armie’s eyes. Armie pulls the sweater up slowly, over Timmy’s head, those curls bursting loose as soon as it’s over his head, but then he stops there. Timmy’s arms are still in the sweater and Armie just rolls the body of the sweater back between Timmy’s shoulder blades. Armie steps back. With his arms in the dark sweater in the unlit room, Timmy looks like the Venus de Milo, and Armie just wants to _look_. Realizing he can’t move his arms to touch, Timmy sighs, settles into it, and lowers his head in submission so those curls fall once again into his eyes.

 A shaft of light from a passing car illuminates Timmy briefly, and Armie snaps the photo in his mind. He’ll return to that image later, when he’s alone in bed or on a plane and he goes to reach for Timmy instinctively, like one hand reaches for the other, but finds Timmy’s not there. He crosses to his immobilized lover again and kisses the top of Timmy’s head. The curls are soft but still cold on the surface from the weather outside. Armie enfolds Timmy in his arms and feels Timmy surrender completely against him. They stand like that in the center of the room for moment and then Armie pulls away. He gently presses his hands on Timmy’s shoulders until Timmy gets the command and kneels before Armie, arms still in the sweater and pressed together behind his back.

 Armie pulls the knotted cherry stem from his pocket, where he’d put it after their visit to the bar earlier. He’s so hard he can barely stand it and finally unzips his pants to feel the instant relief from constraint. Timmy looks at Armie’s cock with such love it’s all Armie can do not to come right then.

 “So…” Armie draws the word out, taking his cock in his hand and brushing it against Timmy’s cheek and lips, “you never told me you knew how to do this.” He waves the cherry stem with his other hand before tossing it across the room.

 “And now,” Armie slides the head of his cock between Timmy’s waiting lips, “I want you to show me.”

 


End file.
